


Priorities

by a_splash_of_stucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguments, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Dates, Engineer!Bucky, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Married Life, Minor Wanda Maximoff/Vision, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV Multiple, Pepper Potts Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_splash_of_stucky/pseuds/a_splash_of_stucky
Summary: As your husband takes on more and more responsibilities at work, he starts to lose sight of the truly important things in life. Can your marriage survive these rough waters? Will you ever get your Bucky back?





	1. something about us doesn't seem right these days

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the song ‘Gotta Go My Own Way’ from HSM2, which happens to be one of my favourite songs of all time. I hope I’ve done it justice. 
> 
> The ride ahead will be angsty, and at some points, you may feel like punching someone in the face, but I assure you, it’ll all be worth it in the end. Chapter titles are taken from the song itself.

_Right here, I’ll promise you somehow  
_ _That tomorrow can wait for some other day to be  
_ _But right now there’s you and me_

What’s better than listening to a bit of High School Musical in the morning, as the smell of a home-cooked breakfast fills the apartment? Not much else, in your opinion.

You’re humming along to the song as you slide the scrambled eggs that you’ve just finished making onto a big white plate. You’ve gone all-out with this morning’s meal, cooking up the eggs, a couple of sausages each, hash browns and some baked beans. Freshly-toasted artisan bread is sitting on a separate plate, waiting to be buttered.

Just as you’re dumping the dirty pan into the sink to be washed later, your husband dashes into the kitchen, shirt still untucked and belt looped over his neck. Today, Bucky’s wearing a navy-blue button-down, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s paired it with some tailored black slacks that hug his thighs in a most appealing fashion.

“Hey, honey,” he says distractedly, “Have you seen the papers I was looking at last night?”

“Yeah, you left them on the counter, next to the fridge,” you reply, pointing in their direction.

“Ah, great,” Bucky mumbles. He grabs the stack of papers and hastily stuffs them into his briefcase, then sets his case on the counter so that he can finish getting ready.

“You’re in a rush, today,” you observe quietly.

He hums distractedly. “Meeting,” is his simple reply.

Once he’s tucked his shirt in and put on his belt, Bucky comes over to you to give you a brief peck on the temple.

“Morning, doll,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your cheek. Your lips quirk into a smile as you slide your hand around his bicep, giving it a fond squeeze.

It’s then that Bucky notices the spread on the kitchen island. He does a comical double-take, like he can’t believe it’s there. Bucky turns to face you, brows furrowed in concern.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks, “I’m not forgetting an important date, am I?”

“Nope,” you answer, as you casually tuck your fingers into his belt loops. You use them to pull him closer, plastering your chests together. Bucky goes easily, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“I just wanted to do something nice for you, have breakfast together, y’know?”

The perplexed expression on Bucky’s face morphs into an apologetic smile. “That’s so sweet, honey,” he murmurs, rubbing one hand on your back in wide circles. “But um…I’m really sorry, I can’t stay. I’ve got an 8AM with the team to catch, I gotta get going.”

You bite your lip to suppress a sigh. It was silly for you to get your hopes up, to think that your husband might have some time in his busy schedule to have a leisurely breakfast with you.

You should’ve known better.

Your cheeks stretch into a smile that feels so fake and forced, it’s a wonder that Bucky doesn’t see through your shaky facade. Secretly, you think that it’s a miracle that you’re able to plaster a smile onto your face at all, given that your heart is currently crumbling into pieces.

“Oh well, some other time, then,” you say airily.

Bucky hums, squeezing you with his arms. “You betcha. Actually, tell you what — tomorrow’s a Saturday, how ‘bout I take you to that pancake shop you like for brunch, hmm? Or — well, you can decide where we go, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” you mumble.

Bucky nudges your chin with his finger, tipping your face upwards so that he can plant a quick kiss on your lips. “Bye, sweetie, I gotta go now, okay?”

You nod in understanding, giving him one last hug before stepping back. “Have a good day at work!” you chirp, watching as he gathers his briefcase, phone, wallet and keys.

“Thanks honey, you too! Love you!” he calls, as he dashes out of the kitchen.

You listen to the thuds and thumps of Bucky putting on his coat and shoes, followed by the loud bang of the front door slamming shut. Once you’re certain that you’re alone, you sigh heavily and sink against the kitchen counter.

Your gaze drifts over the kitchen island, and the breakfast for two that you’ve so lovingly cooked and carefully arranged. Now, the steaming eggs and warm toast seem to be mocking you. With a dejected sigh, you pull out one of the chairs and plop into it, pulling your plate closer. You attack your eggs viciously with a fork, taking out some of your lingering anger on your food.

You and Bucky have been married for nearly two years. You’d met as college students, and had gotten into a serious relationship within six months of your first encounter. In your heart of hearts, you know that he’s the man that you want to spend the rest of your life, but lately, you’ve been feeling as if your husband is turning into a stranger.

He’s been swamped with work. He probably started getting busier about a year ago, but over the past few weeks, his schedule has reached a new level of hecticness. Bucky’s been working late nights nearly every night for at least a month, and that is really starting to take its toll — not only on him, but also on your marriage.

Bucky works as one of the lead engineers in Stark Industries’ R&D department. He heads up the Civilian Safety branch — CivSafe, as he tends to call it. That means that he’s working on designing and building tech that will help to minimise civilian casualties and collateral damage in zones of conflict. He’s worked on everything from bomb-proof windows, to minesweepers, to water-filtration devices.

You know that he’s been working on an especially important project for the last three months. His team is scrambling to get a working prototype built within the next couple of weeks, in time for a major demonstration to key SI investors.

You’re also aware of the fact that Bucky is almost certainly going to get a promotion by the end of the year, if this project can get the funding that it needs. Most likely, he will become one of the coordinators of the entire R&D department. That’s a pretty big responsibility, given that the department consists of some two hundred members of staff.

These two pressures have meant that in addition to early starts and late nights, Bucky often goes into office during the weekends — which is just ridiculous, in your opinion. You consider yourself lucky if you get to see him for more than twenty hours a week.

You love Bucky, and you love that he’s so passionate about his work, but sometimes — sometimes, you just want your husband.

Once you’ve finished your breakfast, you clear away the dishes and give the kitchen a general wipe-down, before heading to your bedroom to freshen up and get ready for the day ahead.

You and Bucky moved into this swanky apartment near the centre of town at the start of the year. One of your favourite things about this place is the master bathroom, with its spacious shower, enormous bathtub, his-and-hers sinks, as well as the simple yet elegant black and white tiling.

Simple elegance is, in fact, the running theme throughout the decor in your home.

The layout of the apartment is basic, but practical. There’s a master bedroom, a slightly smaller guest room and a third room that is currently functioning as your home office, but could one day be turned into a nursery. The guest room and your home office share one wall, whilst the master bedroom is opposite both. All three rooms share a narrow corridor, which leads to a cozy living room that has a wooden floor and gigantic floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen and dining areas are directly connected to the living room, making the entire place seem bigger, more open.

You dress yourself in your default day clothes; a pair of stylish, yet comfortable black pants, paired with a plain t-shirt. It’s an outfit that is comfortable enough for you to work in, but does not make you look like you’ve merely swapped your pyjamas for another set of loungewear.

You have the liberty of being able to work from home because you are a full-time blogger and sometimes Instagrammer. Your content is centred around fashion, beauty and lifestyle, though you also make the occasional personal post here and there.

Though you earn a fair bit of money via your social media presence, the bulk of your income comes from your online shop, Sunshine’s Creations. There, you sell a range of cute lifestyle products, including stickers, makeup pouches, notebooks and phone cases. You’ve designed every single item on that site yourself and you are incredibly proud of your online business.

Today is an admin kind of day, so after making yourself your beverage of choice, you head into your office, boot up your laptop and get to clearing your inbox.

Thankfully, your to-do for the day list is fairly short. However, each task is labour-intensive; in addition to clearing out your inbox (which currently contains almost 200 unread emails), you need to write and post your Friday blogpost, and finalise the points you want to discuss with Peter next week.

Peter Parker is the college student who is entirely responsible for designing the Sunshine’s Creations website. You’d sketched out a rough design and created the graphics, but he’s the person who made the code and turned your ideas into reality. You’re meeting up with him in a few days’ time to discuss some possible changes to the site.

You target to get all your work done by 5PM today at the latest, because tonight, you’re due to go out on a date with your husband. Last week, Bucky promised to take you out to dinner — Italian or Thai, you haven’t quite decided — and you can’t wait to spend an evening together.

Though a part of you is looking forward to your date, a larger part of your mind is telling your heart not to get its hopes up too high. If this morning is anything to go by, you can’t help thinking that your date won’t take place. Bucky hadn’t mentioned any plans for tonight before he left for work, so you’re fairly sure that he’s forgotten about his promise to you. Plus, with how things have been going at SI lately, you have a feeling that tonight is going to be another late night for him.

You’re hoping for the best, but you’ve braced yourself for the worst.

—

 _a-sprinkle-of-sunshine posted:_   **Monthly Life Update [August Edition]**

Hello everyone! I hope the week has treated you well. As I was brainstorming ideas for today’s blogpost, I realised that I hadn’t done my personal update for the month of August (and it’s almost halfway through September, whoops), so guess what? It’s time to get personal.

First, let’s talk about business (which, okay, isn’t technically ‘personal’, but whatever, it’s still big news). As many of you know, I run an online shop called Sunshine’s Creations, and I’m hoping to release a new set of stickers and notebooks in time for the holiday season (whoop!). I’m currently in the process of finalising the designs for those, so get excited!

On a similar note, I’m scheduled to have a meeting with my web designer next week to iron out some of the kinks in the website (yes! I’ve heard all of your comments about the annoying glitches, my darlings). Fear not, we’ll be addressing many of these issues soon - if you’ve got a suggestion for improvement, feel free to email me :D

Hmm…what else has been going on in my life?

Well, the big thing I can think of is…marriage. Specifically,  _my_ marriage.

Things are…complicated, at the minute, between my husband and I. It’s…well…okay, it’s hard to explain what’s going on, but I’ll do my best. Basically,  _I t_ hink that we have a problem, but hubby doesn’t exactly feel the same. At least, I don’t think he feels the same, but then again, we haven’t properly talked to each other for a while (welp).

You see, he’s been working a lot recently. I’m talking late nights, going into office on the weekends, bringing work home, that kinda thing. He’s racing to meet a deadline and…I kinda feel like I’ve been pushed to second place? This has been happening for the past few months and I just feel like he’s turning into a workaholic. He’s not making time for me — for us — the way he used to. I’m not saying that his world needs to revolve around me, but I  _would_ like to see him before I go to sleep every night, y’know?

What’s worse is that I don’t think he sees this happening. He’s literally buried up to his neck in work, so his awareness of what’s going on in his personal life is just…it’s not there. I know we need to have a talk, but, like — he’s not ever here for me to talk to! We’re supposed to go on a date tonight, and I’m crossing my fingers and toes that he can make it, but idk, it doesn’t feel likely.

Sorry to be so negative, but it’s the honest truth: we’re going to a bit of a rough patch. Any advice on the matter would be much appreciated!

—

“Shuri, have you taken a look at that section of code I sent you this morning?” Bucky asks.

Shuri looks up from her work station and squints at Bucky. “Yes, why?”

“Can you see what the problem is?”

She snorts. “You entered in the speed of light incorrectly. You missed out a zero.”

Bucky groans, burying his face in his palms as he sighs in frustration. “God fucking dammit,” he mutters.

Someone tsks reproachfully. “Not in front of the child, Barnes,” Sam teases.

“Shut up, Wilson,” Bucky grumbles half-heartedly.

At the same time, he hears Shuri turning to confront Sam, her indignance clearly evident in her voice.“I am not a child,” she protests, “I am—”

“Save it,” Bucky says tiredly, “You two are worse than Tony and Pepper, I swear.”

“Speaking of Stark, I bumped into him at lunch earlier,” Sam says. Bucky lifts his head to look at him, as his ears perk up in interest. “He’s asking to see a working demo two days before D-day.”

“Will we be ready in time?” Bucky asks.

Shuri shrugs. “We’ve got a…seventy percent chance of being ready in time,” she says cautiously.

Sam sighs as he stands up, hooking his laptop bag over his shoulder. “Well, looks like we’ll all be pulling some late nights.”

“Where’re you going?” Bucky asks, as Sam passes by him.

“Home,” Sam replies, shooting Bucky a confused expression. “S’nearly eight, Barnes, and I promised my sister that I’d watch her kids tonight.”

Bucky’s eyebrows twitch in surprise. How is it that late already?

“Oh, okay, man,” he says, clapping Sam on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Have a good weekend. See you on Monday.”

He turns to Shuri as Sam heads off to the lifts. “You should be getting home too,” he tells her, “It’s a Friday, c’mon, don’t you have friends, or something?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Don’t you? What about your wife?”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, but at that moment, feels his phone vibrating in his pants pocket. He fishes it out and, after glancing at the caller ID, grins happily.

“Speaking of which — it’s the President of Domestic Affairs,” he says, waving his phone towards Shuri. “I gotta take this. See you Monday, and head home soon!”

“I will!” she calls, as Bucky steps into his office and shuts the door. He answers the call and presses the phone to his ear.

“Hey, honey!” he greets.

“Hi darling, where are you?”

He frowns. “Uh…I’m still at the office? What’s up?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled ‘oh’.

Bucky sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair as he slumps in his desk chair. “Yeah — sorry, honey, I meant to call you earlier, I just — this piece of code is really kicking my ass. I gotta get it done by Monday, ‘cause that’s when we’re meeting with Steve.”

Bucky and his team are working on a piece of tech that could revolutionise civilian safety in war-torn areas. Essentially, they’re developing cloaking shields that can easily be transported and built into structures large enough to hide entire safehouses. They’re meant to hide people in plain sight and, more importantly, withstand the force of the heaviest artillery fire.

They could save so many lives.

Whilst Bucky’s CivSafe team are in charge of designing and making the shield, Steve hails from the marketing department. He’s coming over next week to start drafting their pitch and preparing the slides for their investors’ meeting at the start of October.

As much as Bucky loves his work and as much as he believes in the importance of what they’re doing, this whole project is a big headache for him. The time crunch is unreal. His deadlines are almost impossible to meet, and he can’t afford to fall behind schedule at any point. He’ll probably be working late tonight to get the code ready for Monday.

“So…you’ll be back late, I guess?” you ask, drawing Bucky out of his thoughts.

“Huh, what — oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess so. I really can’t get out of this, doll, I’m sorry,” he says apologetically.

You sigh. “It’s just—”

Bucky frowns when you break off abruptly. “Just what?” he asks.

“D’you remember what tonight is?”

Bucky’s frown deepens. The date isn’t an important anniversary, but today’s a Friday, and—

“Oh. It’s movie night, isn’t it? Did I promise to watch something with you?”

—

You press your fingers over the speaker of your phone as you take a few deep breaths, fighting back the tears of frustration that threaten to spill from your eyes. When you think you’ve calmed down enough, you press your phone back to your ear and summon your steadiest voice.

“Yeah,” you croak, “Yeah, it’s just movie night.”

Bucky clucks his tongue apologetically. “I’m sorry, honey, I really am — I was looking forward to spending the evening with you.”

 _Really?_  you want to ask. You bite your tongue before the harsh retort can slip out.

“Look, I gotta get back to work, honey, but watch something for me, yeah? What about that new Chadwick Boseman one that just came out?”

“Black Panther,” you say dejectedly.

“Yeah, why don’t you watch that? And — I promise you, I’m taking you out for breakfast tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“‘Kay. Love you, sweetheart, I gotta go now. Bye.”

“Bye. Love you.”

With a sigh, you disconnect from the call and let your phone drop onto the bed.

_Movie night, seriously? What the hell, Bucky?_

You’re curled up on a mountain of pillows, half-dressed in what was supposed to be tonight’s date-night outfit. You’re wearing a flowy black skirt and a black cami, over which you were planning to wear a chiffon blouse that you’d bought last weekend. It’s hanging over the door, just waiting for you to put it on. You’ve done your hair and put on some makeup, but now, it looks like your efforts have been for naught.

You’d been preparing yourself for this outcome all day, but the news still hurts like a sucker punch to the gut. Your emotions are in turmoil; a strange cocktail of rage, frustration, sadness and ambivalence running through your system.

After you wipe off your makeup, you change into a comfortable pyjama set and resign yourself to a quiet night in. On a whim, you pick up your phone and dial Natasha’s number, hoping that she’s free this evening; you’re in dire need of some company. She answers almost immediately.

“What’s up?” she says, in lieu of a traditional greeting.  

“Hey,” you sigh, as you pad to the kitchen. “Wanna come over? We can order pizza.”

“Sure,” she says easily. “I thought you were going out on a date, though.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “So did I.”

She hums, choosing to drop the subject rather than push you further, for which you’re grateful. You don’t want to talk about it.

“I’ll be there in fifteen — with plenty of ice cream. I want a large pepperoni, with extra cheese.”

“You got it.”


	2. life keeps getting in the way

“Let’s have a baby,” says Bucky.

You’re about five minutes post-orgasm, still trying to catch your breath and calm your galloping heart, so it takes a few seconds for your brain to actually register and process what he’s just said. You lift your head from where it’s pillowed on his chest and look at him through narrowed eyes.

“You wanna what-now?”

“A baby,” he repeats, as he rolls onto his side, forcing you to scoot back and give him some space.  Bucky slings an arm over your waist loosely, fingers idly tracing the bare skin at the small of your back. You prop your head up one elbow so that you can look at him properly.

“Why?” you ask.

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe ‘cause we’ve been married for almost two years? I dunno, I just feel like…we’re in a good position financially, Tony’s all but guaranteed me a promotion, your business is thriving — maybe it’s time, y’know?”

You bite your lip as you mull over his words, not yet convinced. “I dunno,” you mumble, “Having a kid is a pretty big commitment.”

“I know, but—we’re in a good place, aren’t we?” he asks, shifting forward to press his forehead to yours.

“I guess so,” you reply hesitantly. “I just…I need some time to think about this, okay? I want that with you, don’t get me wrong but…I’m not sure if I’m ready, yet.”

Bucky smiles at you, soft and tender. For a moment, he looks exactly like the boy you fell in love with, all those years ago. “Of course, honey,” he murmurs, bending to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’m not saying we gotta do it now — whenever you’re ready, doll. It’s no rush.”

You flash him a smile in return, and pray that he won’t see past the mask that you’ve painted on your face.

Sensing that the conversation is over, you slump into the pillows, groaning in relief as you stretch out your pleasantly-exhausted muscles. Bucky rumbles low in his chest as he slides his hands down your naked back, stopping to cup the swell of your ass.

“Maybe…maybe we could start practicing, though?” he asks hopefully.

You bark out a laugh as you turn to glare at him playfully. “You’re insatiable, Mr Barnes,” you tease.

“Can’t help it, when I’ve got such a pretty wife,” he replies, moving to cage you in with his forearms, forcing you to roll onto your back. You hum as you loop your hands over his neck and tangle your fingers through his hair, bringing him in for a filthy kiss.

“Perhaps you should try your best to convince me — I might make up my mind, sooner,” you say huskily, as you nose along his stubbled jaw.

Bucky pulls back, eyes dark with lust and gleaming with promise. “Challenge accepted, sweetheart.”

—

_a-sprinkle-of-sunshine posted at 2.36PM:_ **Kids??**

I know I don’t usually make posts on a Sunday, but something’s just happened and I’d really like some advice.

In my last post, I talked about the current status of my marriage (btw, many thanks to everyone who left a supportive comment/piece of advice!). Today, I’d like to share with you a further development.

This morning, my husband brought up the subject of children. Specifically, he brought up the subject of  _us_  having children. Basically, hubby said that he wanted to have them. I should also say that he wasn’t in any way pressuring me to have them soon, which I appreciate.

Why am I telling you this?

Well, you all know that I’d like to have some children of my own, one day. I want to raise kids with him, but I do have some reservations.

A friend of mine sent me an interesting article a couple of weeks ago (link), which it got me thinking. From observing my friends and acquaintances, I think that this is an issue that applies to many of us in long-term heterosexual relationships.

So many women are basically “married single mothers”. They’re single mothers, despite having a husband or male s/o at home.

Let’s assume that mom and dad are both working (as is the case for hubby and I). In most families, when dad comes home, he puts his feet up on the table and chills out by playing on his Xbox or phone or whatever. He doesn’t offer to help with the dishes, he’s not cooking dinner, he’s literally just sitting there. Sometimes, dad doesn’t even come home until it’s almost midnight.  

Meanwhile, mom’s there trying to make sure that dinner’s on the table, that the kids have done their homework, that they’re doing okay in school, that they’ve packed their bags for the next day — looking after the kids, basically. My point is, in most heterosexual families as I’ve described, there’s a clear gender split in terms of child-raising responsibilities.

I don’t want that. Yes, even though I work from home and  _could_ devote a lot of time to child-upbringing, that’s not what I want. I want my husband and I to raise a child  _together_ , to have equal responsibility, to share the burdens and joys. I don’t want my children to see my husband as a stranger, y’know?

But, with the way that hubby is getting busier and busier by the day, well — I think it’s quite likely that, if we have kids, I’m gonna end up as a married single mom. In my heart of hearts, I believe that our marriage will suffer if we have a baby now. I’m scared that my husband won’t be there to watch them grow up

I know, I know — I NEED TO TALK THIS OUT WITH HIM, and I will, I promise. I’m just…I don’t know what I’m gonna say. I need to think about it, for a bit.

Anyway. Any and all advice on this matter would be much appreciated, especially if you’ve been through a similar situation.

—

Sundays are for chilling out, but apparently, Bucky didn’t get that memo.

You’ve been trying to get him out of the house all day, to no avail. The two of you had rolled out of bed at around lunchtime and, after sharing a long shower, had wandered to the kitchen to cook up some pasta. In the middle of your meal, Bucky had gotten a call from Tony, which was filled with clipped sentences and terse voices. Since then, he’s stationed himself at the kitchen island, laptop open and papers spread out in front of him, frantically making last-minute changes to his designs.

“I’m sorry, honey — maybe later?” he’d said, when you’d suggested going out for a walk.

“Sweetie, I’m busy right now, I’m sorry,” he’d said an hour later, when you’d asked him if he wanted to watch a movie with you.

“Sorry, doll, this code’s got a major bug in it, I gotta try and sort it out, I can’t go right now,” he’d said, when you’d asked if he wanted to go somewhere for dinner.

You want to scream at him in frustration.

You know that you need to confront this issue sooner rather than later, but you don’t have the strength to deal with it right now. After ordering dinner from a nearby Chinese takeout place, you curl up in front of the TV for — yet another — quiet night in, alone. The fact that you’re having dinner by yourself is kind of ridiculous, given that your husband is literally sat twenty feet away from you.

Since you’re not getting much company from Bucky tonight, you decide to head to bed early.

You sigh as you curl up on your side of the king-sized mattress, frustrated by the fact that your husband just — doesn’t seem to have time for you, anymore. A part of you feels guilty for being angry at Bucky, given that he’s only working so hard so that he can save up more money and give you a good life. Nonetheless, you can’t help thinking that there must be a limit to how much he should be working.

It takes two to have a marriage, after all.

You lie in bed, dozing in and out of dreams whilst you wait for your husband to call it a night. Sometime after eleven, you’re awoken from your light slumber by the feeling of the bed dipping with Bucky’s weight as he climbs in. He presses a kiss to your temple as he slides under the covers and curls himself around your back, slipping an arm around your waist to pull you closer. You reach back to give his hip an affectionate squeeze.

“Hey, doll, sorry — didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers.

“S’okay,” you mumble sleepily. “You got your work done?”

“Yeah,” he replies, burying his face against the back of your neck. “Sorry our Sunday got ruined, though. Tell you what — my schedule’s free on Tuesday evening, why don’t I make a reservation at Giovanni’s and take you out for dinner, huh?”

You hum in agreement, lacing your fingers with Bucky’s where they lie over your stomach. “M’kay,” you murmur, “G’night, Buck.”

“Sweet dreams, doll.”

—

When Tuesday evening rolls around, you find yourself sitting at your dressing table, putting the finishing touches to your eye makeup.

You’re in a good mood, today — you had a productive meeting with Peter earlier this afternoon, and he’d gone away promising to look into some of the problems that you’ve been having with your website. Your supplier has gotten back to you with a reasonable price quote for the limited edition notebooks that you’re selling for autumn/winter, and you’ve scheduled the blog post that’s supposed to go up tomorrow.

All in all, a fulfilling day.

Despite being buoyed by your high spirits, there’s a lingering seed of worry in your gut. Your reservation for Giovanni’s is at seven, and Bucky still hasn’t texted you to say that he’s left work, even though it’s already half-past six.

You’ve dressed up nicely for the occasion, putting on a blue dress that compliments your skin tone and fits your body perfectly. You’ve paired the dress with some strappy heels, and have put a little extra effort into your hair and makeup too.

Your phone rings just as you’re swiping on your lipstick.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says breathlessly. “I just checked the time.”

“Are you on the way?”

“Uh…no,” he says slowly, “I’m still tied up at work.”

You set your tube of lipstick down on your vanity, his sentence settling in like a boulder at the bottom of your stomach.

Of course he’d say that. Of  _course_  he’d have to go and ruin what was otherwise a good day.

“You’re coming home late?” you ask, voice a little shaky.

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, honey. I  _really_  can’t wriggle my way out of this one.”

You purse your lips. “Okay. I understand.”

“You do?” Bucky asks, sounding relieved.

“Yeah, of course. Your work’s more important than your wife, I see that,” you say sharply. It’s a low blow, but you’re pissed off, and you want your words to wound him deeply, just as he has hurt you.

His sharp inhale on the other end of the line tells you that you’ve achieved your goal.

“No, sweetie, c’mon, just try to understand what I’m—”

“No,  _you_  try and understand how I’m feeling, James,” you hiss, fighting to hold back the hot tears of anger brimming in the corners of your eyes. “Am I not —  _important_ to you?”

“ _No_ ,” he says fiercely, “Sweetheart, don’t think like that, I’m just making sure that when we have kids—”

“Oh,  _when_?” you say angrily, “It’s a ‘when’, now? We’re having kids, that’s confirmed, is it? Are you even gonna be there to watch them grow up?”

Bucky exhales harshly. “Honey, we’re not having this conversation on the phone—”

“No? Then when the fuck are we gonna have it, James Buchanan? Hmm? Because you’re hardly ever home, and even when you are, you’re too busy thinking about work to listen to me, anyway.”

“Doll—”

“No, don’t fucking ‘doll’ me. I just—just whatever,” you sigh tiredly, as you scrub your hand over your face, the fight suddenly bleeding out of your system. You’re tired of this. You don’t want to deal with this shit anymore.

“Our reservation’s at seven,” you say, “I gotta go, or I’ll be late. Bye.”

You hang up before he gets a chance to reply.  

You want to hurl your phone against the wall. You want to scream and shout and tear your hair out. You want to rip this fucking dress to shreds, all because of Bucky. He’s just so —  _ugh_.

With an exasperated harumph, you turn back to the mirror and fish a tissue out of your makeup bag, using it to dab at your eyes. You won’t cry, right now; Bucky’s not worth your tears. You finish putting on your lipstick, spritz on a little more hairspray, then pick up your purse and flick off the bedroom lights.

Bucky might not be coming on this date night, but you might as well treat yourself. God knows you deserve it.

On impulse, you pull out your phone and speed dial Wanda. Natasha’s on a business trip to Milan this week, so she won’t be able to join you, but you haven’t caught up with Wanda for a while — this might be a good way to salvage a bad situation. You’ve known Wanda since high-school, and you consider her to be one of your closest friends.

“Hello?” she answers, after a few rings.

“Hey, it’s me,” you say, “Listen, I know this is kinda random, but are you busy tonight?”

“Uh…like now? No, why?”

“You wanna go out for dinner with me?”

“Uh…Wait, like  _now_  now? Where? Why?”

“Giovanni’s, and I’ll tell you why when we get there.”

Wanda pauses as she thinks over your offer. “Yeah, why not, they’ve got good wine — lemme just text Vis and I’ll be right over, ‘kay?”

“Cool. Reservation’s for seven, under the name ‘Barnes’.”

“Okay. See you in a bit.”

—

“So, you gonna tell me what this is about?” Wanda asks, as the server clears your menus and re-fills your wine glasses. “You’re all dressed up, but I have a feeling that that’s not for me.”

“Bucky was supposed to take me out on a date,” you reply, as you take a sip of your wine.

“And? What happened?”

You shrug your shoulders indifferently. “He got caught up at work.”

Wanda leans back, folding her arms across her chest as she looks at you critically. She’s wearing a black shift dress, and has piled her long brown hair into a loose bun on top of her head. In addition to her favourite lace choker, she’s also wearing her signature dark lip and smoky eye-liner.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in there somewhere. You’re not telling me something,” she says, after a long pause.

You chew on your lip hesitantly as you fiddle with the edge of your napkin. “It’s nothing, just—we kinda had a fight over the phone.”

Wanda clicks her tongue sympathetically as she leans forward to rest her elbows on the table. “What was it about?”

You shake your head, unwilling to talk about the fight when it’s still so fresh in your mind. “It’s nothing, forget about it.”

Wanda arches an eyebrow, clearly displeased by the fact that you’re bottling up your emotions. “I mean…if it was  _actually_  nothing, I wouldn’t be here right now, would I? Something’s clearly up. C’mon. Spill.”

You sigh, internally admitting defeat. “Well…okay. He’s been working on this big project, and — uh…actually, it’s not just that.”

She waits patiently as you try to find the right words.

“He’s busier lately…like, a  _lot_  busier. It’s been getting worse the last few months, but it all started about a year ago, I’d say. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for him, and I know that he’s doing this for both of us, but—I feel like I’m not the most important thing in his life anymore.”

You huff dryly. “That seems ridiculous to say, ‘cause if you think about it, he’s working so hard because he wants to give us a good life, but…I feel like he went and did this without me, y’know? Without talking to me, I mean. Like, I don’t need a fancy house with a backyard and a garden and whatever — I just want my husband, at home, with me.”

Wanda nods sagely. “He’s doing what he _thinks_ is best, which — fair enough, that’s great, but that’s not necessarily what you want or need from him.”

“Exactly.”

Wanda hums thoughtfully as she takes a sip of her wine. “Sounds like you guys need to have a heart-to-heart.”

“I know, but he’s never home!” you whine, “How am I supposed to talk to him if he isn’t there for me to talk to?”

Wanda sighs as she shakes her head. “I dunno, babe, I can’t help you there.”

“I know you can’t,” you sigh, “It’s okay, we just need to work things out between us.”

She nods in agreement. “So was this date night supposed to be his way of making things up to you?” she asks.

“No. Well — kinda. He was busy doing work on Sunday, and he said he’d take me out tonight, but, well. I guess that didn’t happen, huh?”

“So that’s why you had a fight?”

“Basically,” you reply. Just then, the server comes over with your food. You get one whiff of the fragrant, delicious smell and already, your stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“Well, babe,” Wanda says, as she digs into her pasta, “If you ever need a place to stay — like, if you need to be away from him for a while or whatever, you’re always welcome to use our spare room.”

You smile at her gratefully. “Thanks, Wan. I hope I won’t need to, but thank you for the offer.”

“No probs. Are we getting dessert after?”

“Sure, why not. I’m paying for this using his card anyway, let’s cash out.”

She cackles gleefully.

—

Bucky doesn’t get home until it’s half past midnight.

He’s exhausted from a day dealing with catastrophe after catastrophe, but more than that, he feels like shit for not taking you out like he’d promised. You’d sounded really upset on the phone earlier, when he told you that he couldn’t make it. Bucky’s tried calling you about half a dozen times since then, and left you several texts, but you haven’t responded to anything.

He’s not sure what kind of mood you’ll be in.

When he shoulders open the door to the apartment, Bucky is greeted by pure darkness. With a weary sigh, he toes off his shoes and turns on the lights.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the blanket and pillows piled up at the end of the sofa, clearly meant for him. You’ve been kind enough to leave him a pair of sweats and a t-shirt to change into, but there’s no note or anything else with the items.

He knows that if he were to try the door to your shared bedroom, he’d find it to be locked.

Well then. A night on the couch it is.


	3. whenever we try somehow the plan is always rearranged

When he knows he’s in the doghouse, Bucky Barnes can woo like it’s nobody’s business.

Over the next couple of weeks, you find yourself being showered in all manner of gifts; it’s as if you’ve transformed into a queen overnight.

Extravagant bouquets of flowers show up on your doorstep almost every other day, with adorable little love-notes tucked amongst the fresh blooms. Your entire apartment is beginning to smell like a garden in spring. Bucky gives you boxes of chocolates, freshly-baked pastries, and even sweet teddy bears with ‘I’m Sorry’ embroidered across their plush tummies.

It’s flattering, really. His over-the-top displays of affection remind you of the early days of your relationship, when Bucky had been anything but subtle in his methods of professing his love for you.

Though you try your hardest, you find it difficult to stay mad at him; it’s never been in the nature of your marriage to hold grudges. You haven’t  _completely_  forgiven Bucky for that disastrous Tuesday evening, but you’re no longer giving him the silent treatment and you’ve allowed him back into the bedroom.

Still. You can’t help but feel as if something is still amiss and, after brooding on the issue for some time, you think you’ve finally figured out what it is.

Despite the fact that he is so blatantly demonstrating his love for you, one thing is distinctly missing: the man himself.

The morning after your falling out, you’d come out of the bedroom to find not only breakfast at the table, but also one very apologetic husband.  The two of you had sat down and talked about the previous evening, but you felt that the talk was had for the sake of ‘talking things out’.

It had felt rather superficial. You know that Bucky had had good intentions, but the talk was like a plaster that had been put over a gushing wound in your marriage. And, like all wounds, things will only get worse the longer that you let it fester.

Some major surgery is needed to fix your marriage.

As disappointing as your talk with Bucky was, you’re nonetheless hopeful that he will be willing to make more of an effort to achieve a better work-life balance. He’d made promises to try harder, and vehemently swore that this hectic period would blow over once his project was done and dusted in a couple of months’ time. He vowed to make things up to you in any way he could.

Yet despite the sincerity of his promises, Bucky is just as busy as ever, like he hasn’t really taken those vows to heart.

What makes this whole thing even more frustrating is that Bucky has repeatedly apologised for missing that date on Tuesday, when really, that’s the  _least_ of your problems. It’s heartbreaking for you to realise just how  _oblivious_ he is to the bigger issues at hand. That missed date is just a — a  _symptom_  of a wider, underlying disease in your marriage.

You have a feeling that this sickness will ultimately kill the love between you and Bucky, if neither of you make an effort to treat it.

At the end of the day, it boils down to this: you appreciate the gifts and attention, but you want more. Yes, you recognise that these presents are Bucky’s way of showing you that he’s constantly thinking about you, but they’re not what you need. What you need is to spend a work-free evening at home, with your husband — is that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

You’re giving Bucky one last chance to prove himself. Your two-year wedding anniversary is in two days’ time, and Bucky’s promised to take you out to dinner in honour of the occasion. This is an event that has been on your calendar for the last three months.

If he doesn’t take this opportunity to mend the rift in your relationship, you’re going to seriously reconsider your future with him.

Because the actual day of your anniversary falls two days before his super-important investors’ meeting, you’re having your celebratory dinner a couple of days earlier, at your favourite Indian restaurant. It’s not the first time that major celebrations — birthdays, anniversaries, family reunions — have had to be scheduled around Bucky’s work commitments, but the fact that this is happening so soon after Tuesday’s no-show just doesn’t sit well with you.

Yet again, Bucky has pushed you to second place.

—

_a-sprinkle-of-sunshine posted at 3.48PM:_ **TWO YEARS LATER**

Can you believe it, everyone? I’ve been married for two years.

Well, technically, it’s one year and 363 days, but that’s close enough, right?

I wanted to make this blogpost to mark this momentous milestone in my life. Never did I think that I would wind up married to someone as kind, generous and loving as my husband and yet — here I am.

This Friday, I’ll be making a post about all the things that I learnt in my second year of marriage, so get excited for that. Hopefully, I’ll be able to share some words of wisdom that might resonate with some of you.

So, what’s this post about, I hear you ask? Well, actually, I just needed a place to dump my thoughts.

If you were around two weeks ago, then you’d’ve seen the drama that ensued when hubby promised to take me out to dinner, and then failed to show up. I’ve spoken briefly about the situation since then, but tonight…I guess it’s his final chance. He’s promised to take me out on a date tonight, and for both our sakes, I’m hoping that he keeps that promise.

I’m getting ready to go out as I type this post. I’m nervous as heck, y’all, I really hope that tonight goes well. What will I do if he doesn’t show up tonight? Well, I think I’ll seriously need to evaluate my marriage, won’t I?

Bye for now (and I’ll keep y’all updated!)

—

You’ve spent the afternoon with Natasha, shopping for an outfit for this all-important date. There had been many worthy contenders, but in the end, you’ve decided to go with a burgundy chiffon dress that falls over your body like a cascading waterfall. The neckline is embellished with intricate beadwork that sparkles in the light.

Nat’s kindly come over to your place to help you get ready. She’s worked her magic to arrange your hair into an elegant ‘do, and you’ve done your makeup a little smokier than normal, complete with a dark lip. You’re feeling good about yourself tonight, and you can only hope that Bucky will be there to appreciate all the effort that you’ve put in.

“You look gorgeous, hun,” Nat says, once you’ve given her a final twirl to show off your outfit.  

Your cheeks flood with warmth at her praise. “Thanks for all your help.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Eh, it’s nothing. You needed it, anyway.”

“Natasha!” you squawk in protest, smacking her shoulder playfully.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” she says airily. “You’ve got inner beauty, sure, but sometimes it doesn’t shine through.”

“You’re mean,” you grumble, pouting petulantly.

“You love me,” she replies, fluttering her eyelashes innocently.

“Sometimes, I don’t understand why,” you sigh.

Natasha snorts in response.

You watch as she picks up a duffle bag from the foot of your bed and hitches the strap over her shoulder. It’s packed with some of your essentials; toiletries, your laptop and chargers, plus enough clothes to last about three days. You’ve asked her to take the bag to Wanda’s house, in case tonight doesn’t go as planned.

“You gonna leave soon?” she asks.

You nod as you check the time on your phone. “Yeah, I probably should,” you mumble, “If he doesn’t show up, or if he’s late tonight, I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“Does he know? That you’re staying at Wanda’s if—”

You shake your head as her voice trails off. “I’m not sure he cares about me enough to even want to know.”

Natasha shrugs in a way that says  _eh, you might be right._

“Are you gonna call him to see if he’s ready?” she asks.

“He’s got a calendar, he’s got eyes, and hands — he can check the time and date for himself. I’m his wife, not his PA.”

Natasha hums noncommittally as she threads her arm through yours. Both of you make your way over to the front door, your heels clicking loudly against the wooden floor.

“I see you’re being tough on him, tonight,” she remarks.

You roll your shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe I only seem tough ‘cause I’ve been too nice to him all this while.”

“Maybe,” she murmurs, “I hope, for both of your sakes, that he shows up on time.”

As you shrug on your coat, you find yourself hoping the same.

—

“Barnes!” Shuri calls, as she storms into Bucky’s office, making him jump. “I’ve found it!”

Bucky looks up from his laptop and squints at her in confusion. “You found what?”

She growls in frustration as she comes over to his desk, pushing stacks of papers to the side to make room. Behind her, Bucky sees Sam hovering at the door, curious and eager to listen in.

“We’ve been trying to stabilise the cloaking technology for weeks,” Shuri says, speaking quickly, her hands moving animatedly as she talks. “We’ve tried tweaking every possible section of the code, every part of the wiring, but—what if the answer is in the shield itself?”

“What d’you mean?” Bucky asks, heart racing in anticipation of her answer.

“What if the  _shield_  needs to be built out of something stronger, something more capable of withstanding the speed of the vibrations from the cloaking mechanism?”

“What d’you have in mind?”

She grins at him proudly before opening her mouth to answer. “Vibranium.”

Sam snorts. “We can’t do that,” he says, pushing off from the door and walking towards them. “We’re trying to keep the costs as low as possible. Vibranium is the rarest metal on earth — even if it  _can_ cope with the speed of the vibrations, there’s no way—”

“Ah, but there _is_ a way! I haven’t finished,” Shuri interrupts, waving her papers in the air to get their attention. “ _Look_ , see — I’ve calculated and run the simulations, and I’m confident that if we use a vibranium-titanium alloy, even just  _one percent_ vibranium, the shield’s stability could improve dramatically.”

Bucky takes the papers out of her hand to look over the numbers.

“Yeah….these seem okay,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, “It’s — it’s worth a try.”

“I’ll go ask Tony to get us some vibranium,” Sam says, turning on his heel.

“We’ll need to modify the algorithm to account for the altered density of the shield,” Bucky says to Shuri, his mind racing as he mentally runs through the changes he’ll need to make. “I’ll get on that while you look at the best way to make the alloy itself, okay?”

“Consider it done.”

—

Your dinner reservation was for 7.30PM.

When you arrived at the restaurant, you’d been disappointed to see that Bucky wasn’t at your table. However, since you got to the place about ten minutes before the time stated on your reservation, you hadn’t allowed yourself to get too discouraged.

Now, you’ve been waiting for almost an hour, and it doesn’t look like he’s about to show up anytime soon. The couple sat on a table near you have been shooting you sympathetic glances for the last fifteen minutes, and you’re just about fed up with it.

You’ve given Bucky his final chance and he blew it. Sucks to be him.

You signal to a passing waiter.

“Can I get a butter chicken and two naan to go, please?”

—

Bucky has been frantically working on his precious cloaking shields for the entire evening, hunched over a table crammed with discarded parts and various papers. Shuri and the rest of their small team are scattered across various tables around him; they’re all desperate to get a working demo together before the big investors’ meeting, which is due to take place is just four days’ time.

He groans as he straightens up, rolling his neck and shoulders to work out the kinks in his muscles. A quick glance at his watch lets him know that it’s almost nine, and—

“ _Shit_ ,” he curses empathically.

Shuri glances up from her desk, a silent question in her eyes. Bucky ignores her as he retrieves his phone from the pile of crap in front of him. When he checks it, he finds that there are no missed calls or texts from you.

Bucky doesn’t know whether that’s a really bad thing, or a really good thing.

He’s praying that it’s the latter.

“Shit,” he repeats, as he dials your number. “Shit, shit,  _shit._ ”

He presses his phone to his ear. As he listens to the beeping dial tone, he jiggles his knee anxiously, willing you to answer your phone.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters, “Pick up, baby, pick up.”

Bucky groans loudly when he all he gets is your voicemail message.

Shit. He’s fucked up, big time.

In the unlikely event that you decide to return his missed call, Bucky decides to leave a voicemail for you.

“Hey sweetheart,” he says, as he runs his fingers through his hair nervously. “I know, I know, I’m an idiot, I’m sorry — I screwed up big time, just…call me back when you get this? Let me know where you are, and I’ll come meet you. I love you. I’m really sorry. Bye.”

As he ends the call, he sighs heavily, slumping forward to bury his face in his hands.

Bucky’s not sure if you’re ever going to forgive him, for this one.

—

After pressing the buzzer for Wanda’s apartment, you lean against the brick wall heavily.

You’re fucking sick of this shit. You want to wipe off your makeup, get out of this stupid dress and burrow under the covers for the next twenty years. Stupid Bucky and his stupid shields and all the stupid work he has to do.  

You’re immensely grateful that Wanda opens the door just a few seconds after you rang the buzzer, as if she’d been expecting you. The expression on her face tells you that she’s not the least bit surprised to find you standing there, which makes you a little sad.

“He didn’t show?” she guesses.

You shake your head, biting your lip as the tears that you’d been holding back all evening come pouring through. You’re so damn  _fed up_ with Bucky, and it seems that your emotional bottling-up capacity has reached its limit.

Wanda rushes forward to catch you before you face-plant onto her floor, wrapping her arms around you and rubbing gentle circles on your back.

“I’m fucking done with him,” you tell her, hiccuping on a sob. “He’s—he’s so—”

“I know,” Wanda says soothingly, “I know, babe, I know. Let’s get you inside, huh?”

Numbly, you nod in agreement and allow her to bundle you into her entryway.

She takes your hand and guides you through the house, stopping by the living room to tell her boyfriend, Vis, that you’re staying over for the night. He nods and thankfully, doesn’t ask any questions.

“Here you go, this is the guest room,” Wanda says, as she throws open the door and turns on the light. It’s got a double-bed, a small desk, an armchair, a chest of drawers and an ensuite. Your overnight bag is waiting for you at the end of the bed.

Tears are streaming down your face, and you want nothing more than to change into some comfy clothes, curl up with your Netflix account and dig into your butter chicken, still warm in its takeout bag. Your phone’s been vibrating constantly since you left the restaurant, probably because Bucky’s suddenly realised the time and has been trying to call you, but you’re too upset with your husband to talk to him right now.

“I’ll let you get changed — call me if you need anything, okay?” Wanda says gently, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

You wipe your eyes and muster up a watery, but genuine smile. “‘kay. Thanks Wan, I really appreciate this.”

“It’s really no problem,” she says, giving you one final, encouraging smile, before she shuts the door.

With a sigh, you dump your purse onto the bed and plop yourself onto the soft mattress, next to your overnight bag. You kick off your heels as you unzip and riffle through the contents of your bag, in search of your laptop. Once you’ve found it, you take it out and boot it up so that you can log into your Netflix account.

When you open up your web browser, you find yourself looking at the blogpost that you’d made earlier today. Absently, you scan through the words, turning them over in your head.

_What will I do if he doesn’t show up tonight? Well, I think I’ll seriously need to evaluate my marriage, won’t I? Bye for now (and I’ll keep y’all updated!)_

You sigh. Yeah, your marriage is in dire need of some re-evaluation.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, idly tracing the keys. Given the current state of affairs, plus the fact that writing has never failed to calm you down, you figure that making a quick post about tonight’s events might not hurt anyone. You pull your laptop closer, wipe your snotty nose, stuff a pillow behind your back, and get to work.

—

Bucky is in a full-blown state of panic.

He’s been calling you constantly for the last half hour, and the voicemails that he’s leaving you are becoming increasingly worried. He’s sent you a barrage of texts, but you’ve replied to none of them.

Bucky’s already gone to the Indian restaurant where he was supposed to meet you, only to discover that you’d left, having waited for him for over an hour.

God, he’s such a piece of shit. What kind of person _does that_  to their spouse?

Now, he’s unlocking the door to your apartment, praying to the heavens above that you’re still here, and that you’re not kicking him out of the place. He’d sleep a million nights on the couch, if only so that you don’t kick him out completely.

His heart sinks to the pit of his stomach when he is greeted by utter darkness as the door swings open. Bucky flicks on the light, only to discover that there is no pillow and blanket waiting for him on the couch.

That can’t be a good sign.

With his heart pounding in his throat, he stalks to the bedroom, his shoes echoing unnaturally in the eerie silence. His palms are slick with sweat, and there’s an uncomfortable dryness in his throat.

Bucky shoulders open the bedroom door — the fact that he can open it at all is a sign that something is very, very wrong.

The room is shrouded in darkness.

He knows without turning on the lights that the bed will be untouched, that your makeup bag will be gone from its position on the dressing table, that your phone charger will be unplugged from its spot on the wall. He knows this and yet, he still turns on the bedroom light, to confirm with his eyes what his heart already knows.

You’re gone.

Bucky sinks to the ground, back resting against the wall beside the door, his brain spinning with a million questions. He is in disbelief — how could he let this happen?

He doesn’t know where you are, where you’re sleeping tonight, whether or not your safe. He doesn’t know what kind of emotional state you’re in, whether you’re mad, or frustrated, or sobbing hysterically, or some combination of all those things. He doesn’t know whether you’ll be gone for two days, or two months or — whether this is really the end of his marriage.

Yeah. He’s screwed up big time.

—

You’ve just posted your impromptu blogpost when your phone starts vibrating for the hundredth time. Wanda had suggested that you turn it off, and, though you’re very tempted to heed her advice, you know that you won’t get any peace of mind until you tell Bucky that you’re safe. You grab your phone from its perch on the bedside table, take a deep, fortifying breath, then swipe right to accept the call.

“Hello?”

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” Bucky breathes, sounding relieved.

It’s amazing how one word can so quickly bring tears springing to your eyes. That single word is loaded with so much emotion, and for a brief moment, you find that you’re tempted to drop your weapons and just be done with all this fighting.

In your heart of hearts, though, you know that that will solve nothing. You need to be strong. You clear your throat and force yourself to remain clear-headed.

“James,” you say crisply. You only use his proper name when you’re mad at him and boy, are you mad at him right now.

“Sweetheart, I can explain—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” you interrupt.

He gulps audibly. “Okay, that’s…okay, um…can I know where you are? Are you safe?”

“No to the first, yes to the second.”

“Okay…then — will you be coming home anytime soon?”

You bite your lip and pick at the duvet as you consider your answer.

“Look, Bucky? Listen,” you begin, “I gotta say what’s on my mind. I’ve been thinking about this a lot, lately — something about us doesn’t seem right these days.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Life keeps getting in the way. Whenever we try, somehow, the plan is always rearranged — you’ve missed so many date nights, so many family events, ‘cause you’re always busy. I’m just—I’m sick of it. I just don’t belong in your life anymore.”

“But — I’ll be less busy soon,” he promises.

“I want you to be less busy now,” you say, your voice rising in anger. “Look, I’m leaving today ‘cause I gotta do what’s best for me—”

“Leaving?” he echoes, slightly panicked. “What d’you mean,  _leaving_?”

“We need to take some time apart. Don’t worry, it’s not forever. You’ll be okay.”

He sighs heavily. “What about us? What about everything we’ve been through?”

“What about  _me_? Bucky, you’ve been so caught up in your work, I feel like I haven’t even seen you in the last two months. I have to do this — I think it’s what I need right now. I hope you understand.”

A pause, then, “I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, in a small voice.

You sigh. “I know.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “That’s for you to figure out. I gotta leave, but…I’ll miss you. I love you.”

“I love you—”

“Bye, Bucky.”

—

“Honey, wait! Hello? Hello?”

Bucky curses as he chucks his phone onto the bed. He growls frustratedly as he rakes his fingers through his hair and tugs on the ends sharply.

He can’t deny your point — he  _has_ been a lot busier lately.

Maybe…maybe his crazy work hours have been affecting you more than he thought.

Fuck.

Bucky’s messed up your marriage  _big time_ , and he’s not even sure that he really understands  _why_  you’re angry. He’s upset you badly enough that you felt the need to leave and he feels like a dickhead because he doesn’t fucking  _know_  what he’s done.

Despite all this confusion, one fact is astoundingly clear: he’s fucked up in the biggest way possible, and if he’s going to have any chance at salvaging his marriage, he’s going to need to make amends with you, soon.

—

_a-sprinkle-of-sunshine posted at 10.36PM:_ **Life Update [Marriage Edition]**

By virtue of my url containing the word ‘sunshine’, I do my best to keep my content as light-hearted and positive as much as I can. I carefully edit my life to show you the best snippets, focusing on the good things that happen to me.

That’s not to say that my days are filled with candy and sweetness.

I think you’ve all been sensing this, if you’ve been keeping up with the situation of my marriage.

(if not, search #marriedlife on my blog to get yourself up to speed)

So, tonight, as some of you may know, my husband was supposed to take me out for dinner, in celebration of our two-year wedding anniversary.

(you can already tell where this is going, can’t you?)

There I am, all dressed up, at the restaurant that he’s supposed to meet me in. Our reservations’s for 7.30PM, but I get there at around 7.20PM — he isn’t there, but I’m not yet worried, since I’m a bit early.

I wait. And I wait. And I wait — for almost an hour, to be exact.

He doesn’t show up.

I didn’t try calling him, because what would he have said? ‘Sorry, honey, I’m tied up at work, I can’t make it.’ We would’ve ended up in this same situation, no?

Now I’m sitting in my friend’s guest bedroom, eating my butter chicken and naan as I type this out. I’m angry, I’m upset, I’m frustrated and honestly? I’m sick of it.

I feel like I’m married to the ghost of a man — no, actually, I feel like I’m married to an  _actual_ ghost. My husband is hardly ever at home; he crawls into bed hours after I’ve gone to sleep, and most mornings, he’s gone just as I’m waking up.

He’s buried in work. Literally, he’s going to work himself to an early grave.

As soon as he finishes one task, it seems like three other things are in need of his attention. He could be getting a promotion soon (have I told you that? Well, now you know) and I think that that pressure is getting to him.

As happy as I am that he’s doing so well in his job, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been pushed to second place. There was a time in our relationship when I was his priority, the single most important thing in his life. I don’t mean to sound selfish or self-centered here, but…what I’m trying to say is that it takes two to make a marriage work. Right now, this feels like a wholly one-sided relationship.

 **TL;DR:** my personal life is going through some shit and thus, I might not be posting on here so often, at least for the foreseeable future. Taking a hiatus, I guess. I’ll miss y’all a lot, but fear not - I promise I’m coming back.


	4. it's so hard to say, but i gotta do what's best for me

You wake up to the warm smell of freshly-brewed coffee. It permeates the room and penetrates the fog of sleep clouding your brain, slowly dragging you back into consciousness.

As you roll onto your back and stretch out your arms, you register two weights at the end of your bed. You crack your eyes open and find Wanda and Natasha perched on your mattress, coffees in hand as they share a plate of pastries.

“S’any of that for me?” you ask, your voice croaky and hoarse from disuse.

“There’s a mug of coffee and some muffins for you on the table,” Wanda says, nodding her head in their general direction.

“Thanks,” you grunt, as you sit up and lean against the headboard. “S’there any reason why you’re in here so early?”

“We’re having an intervention,” Natasha announces. She pauses to take a sip of her coffee. “You sleeping in Wanda’s house clearly means that something is up with your marriage, and we’re worried for you.”

You sigh tiredly as you scrub your knuckles over your crusty eyes. “M’kay, we can talk — but can I at least use the bathroom, first?”

—

Once you’ve made yourself feel more like a functioning human, you curl up under the blankets with the plate of muffins balanced on your lap and your steaming mug of coffee in hand. Wanda and Natasha sit cross-legged in front of you, neutral expressions on their faces. Despite their veneer of calmness, you can sense the current of anxiety roiling just beneath the surface.

“Tell us what’s been going on,” Wanda coaxes.

You sigh heavily. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

“We’ve got time,” Natasha says.

You take a sip of coffee to buy yourself some time as you gather your thoughts. “Well…I guess things started getting bad a few months ago…”

Once you start talking, it’s surprisingly easy to let your story flow. You tell the girls  _everything_.

You talk about Bucky working longer and longer hours, how he brings his work home and goes into the office during the weekends.

You tell them about the dates and special occasions that he’s missed, and the fact that you hardly see him anymore.

You tell them that Bucky’s been hinting at wanting to have kids, and you share with them your worries that he won’t be there to do any of the actual parenting, because he’s so busy all the time.

You tell them how he’s probably going to get a promotion at the end of the year, and you confide in them your worries that his promotion will further jeopardise the state of your marriage.

All the while, there’s a tiny voice in the back of your head telling you that you need to be saying these things to  _Bucky,_  your husband, not Natasha and Wanda. He’s your other half, and the person who actually  _needs_  to know all these things.

 _One step at a time,_  you tell yourself. Your heart is still hurting from yesterday, and there’s only so much fighting you can tolerate in such a short space of time.

Besides. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Perhaps, if you prolong your radio silence, Bucky will be more likely to come to his senses and accept the fact that change is sorely needed.

Most of the things that you tell Wanda and Nat are things which they already know. However, a few details, such as the point about kids, as well as the sheer  _volume_ of dates that he’s missed, are news to them.

By the time you’ve exhausted yourself from speaking, your chest feels a thousand pounds lighter. It’s a relief to finally be able to  _say_  to an actual  _person_  all the things that you’ve been keeping to yourself these past few weeks. Wanda and Nat are looking at you with unreadable expressions on their faces; it’s a mixture of anger, worry and astonishment.

“Hun, you’ve got a  _world_ of problems to deal with, right there,” Wanda says, after a moment of stunned silence.

“You can say that again,” you sigh, as you slump against the headboard.

“So, now what?” Natasha asks, “Obviously, you and James need to have a talk at some point, but where’re you going from here? What’s the next step?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure, just yet,” you admit. “Like, obviously, I don’t want this to be the end of Bucky and I. I don’t wanna leave it all behind, but at the same time…I get my hopes up, and then I watch them fall, every time. I don’t wanna give up on us, but it’s just too hard to watch it all slowly fade away. I’d rather rip the band-aid off in one go, you get me?”

“It’d save you a world of heartbreak,” Nat agrees.

“Wait, wait!” Wanda cries, “You’re not ripping off any bandages until you talk to him, you hear me? Talk to him  _before_  you do anything stupid. Sit him down, make him listen to you and tell him everything that you’ve just told us.”

“Agreed,” Natasha says, nodding fervently. “I think what’s happened is that you’ve both grown and changed — which is to be expected, that’s what happens in life, right? But, at some point…you diverged from each other. Maybe you stopped communicating, maybe he started making assumptions—”

“But none of that matters, now,” Wanda interjects, “That’s all in the past. You need to start focusing on the  _present_. You can’t change what happened before, but you  _can_  decide what happens now. You both need to lay all your cards on the table and be straight with each other.”

“I know,” you sigh, “I  _know_ , I—we’ll have that talk, I promise you, but for now…I just need some time.”

“Of course,” Nat says.

“I’ve said that I’m working from home, today,” Wanda tells you, “So we can…I dunno, go out for brunch, or something, if you want? We can get our nails done, sit in a cafe, chill at home — whatever you wanna do, we’ll do it.”

“I’ve got a 9AM meeting, but I’m free after that,” Nat adds, “So I can join you guys after.”

You smile gratefully at the two of them. “You guys are honestly the bestest friends ever.”  

—

_a-sprinkle-of-sunshine posted at 9.38AM:_ **I’M BACK!! (Well, kinda)**

Hello, it’s me, I’m back — probably a lot sooner than any of us expected, actually.

To the concerned anons that have left me messages — yes, I’m alright, I’ve got a place to stay for as long as I need. I’m staying at my friend W’s house for a bit, until this situation sorts itself out. And, for those of you wondering — no, I haven’t yet spoken to my husband, as I don’t think I’m ready to face him just yet. I’ve still got some thinking to do.

My husband doesn’t read this blog. I’ve told him about it, but as my OG readers will remember, there was a 10-month period where I went on hiatus because I wanted to focus on building Sunshine’s Creations (my online shop). Because I stopped blogging (and stopped talking about working on my blog), I guess my husband kinda forgot about it?

Anyway, that doesn’t matter. My point is that this is my safe corner of the internet, which is why I feel comfortable making posts like the one I’m about to make.

This morning, my friends and I were talking (‘girl talk’, I guess you’d call it), and our chat left me with more questions than answers. I’ve got a million different thoughts swirling around in my mind right now, and I just need to dump them all out.

Writing has always helped me make sense of the chaotic mess that is my brain and I figured that maybe, if I wrote something — like a letter — to my husband, I’d feel better.

Does that even make sense?

Anyway, my letter-thing to him is under the cut. Read on if you want to, but it probably won’t make much sense.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

_My dearest B,_

_We’re going through a tough time, but I’m confident that there’s a way for us to make things better._

_You might think that I’m only upset with you because you’ve missed a couple of dates, but honey? This problem is_ **_so_ ** _much more than that._

_I feel like I’ve lost you, and I’ve got no idea how to get you back._

_You’ve turned into a workaholic — and I’m not just referencing the big project whose deadline is at the end of this week. I’m talking about something that has been happening for the last 12 months._

_You come home late. Most days, you’re off to work before I can even kiss you ‘good morning’ or bring you your coffee like I used to. You bring your work home to do on the weekends — I never see you anymore. How does a marriage work if one half of the couple isn’t there?_

_I know you’re probably going to get promoted (and I’m so proud of you for achieving that!), but at the same time, I wonder what this will do to our marriage._

_I said I would support you in anything you choose to do, and I stand by my words. I will continue to support you, but we can’t continue like this. I don’t want to give you an ultimatum, please don’t interpret this letter as an ultimatum, but…we need to find some way for us to spend more time together. I don’t want you to have to choose between your wife or your career, but if things don’t change…I’m going to make the decision for you._

_We need to talk, I know, I know. We need to sit down and iron out these kinks in our relationship. My love for you is as unshakeable as it’s ever been, so I have faith that we can come out of this stronger than we were before — but you’ve gotta put in the effort too._

_I love you, B._

_Your loving wife._

—

‘You look like shit’ is not something that one wants to hear when they come into their office after a sleepless night.

Then again, Bucky has to admit that that could actually be considered a  _compliment,_  seeing as Sam’s the one who said it.

“Thanks,” Bucky grumbles, as he dumps his briefcase and Starbucks on a section of his workstation that is not covered in blueprints. “If you think I  _look_  like shit, just imagine how I’m  _feeling_.”

“What happened?” Shuri asks.

Just as Bucky opens his mouth to answer, the elevator doors open with a quiet ‘ping’. Bucky’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach when he sees Tony Stark himself emerge from their depths. He is flanked by his wife Pepper on one side, and Bucky’s closest friend, Steve, on the other.

“Barnes!” Stark calls, raising a hand in greeting. “What’s up, my man? You look like shit.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Pepper says reproachfully.

Bucky waves a hand at her. “It’s okay, Ms Potts. Stark — would you believe that you’re not actually the first person to say that to me today?”

Tony gasps theatrically, as he comes over and props his elbows on Bucky’s desk. “No? Then it must be serious. Do tell.”

Bucky groans as he rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I…had a shitty night.”

“What did you do?” Sam asks.

“So…it’s my two-year wedding anniversary tomorrow, but ‘cause that’s two days before the investors’ meeting I promised my wife that we’d go out for dinner yesterday night.”

“And then you got caught up at work and you didn’t show up to the date?” Tony guesses.

“Basically.”

“Men,” Shuri mutters, adding an exaggerated eye-roll for good effect.

“How’d she take it?” Sam presses.

Bucky shrugs. “I went back to our place, and she’d gone. I called her, and she picked up this one time, but she—she said that we need to take some time apart.” He sighs heavily as he slumps into his chair. “I don’t know where she is, or if she’s coming back, or—”

“Um, Buck?” Steve interrupts. “I think I might be able to help you with that.”

Five sets of eyes now turn their attention to Steve. He flushes under the sudden scrutiny, before clearing his throat.

“Have you seen her latest blog posts?”

Bucky’s eyebrows quirk up in surprise. “Uh…no?” he says hesitantly.

 _God_ , he’d forgotten about your blog — he didn’t think you were posting on it anymore, once you’d started channeling more of your energy into making your online business a success.

Steve pulls out his phone and taps on the screen a few times, before handing it over to Bucky.

“Have a read of these, I think they’ll help answer some ‘a your questions.”

Bucky scans the first few posts quickly. In and amongst your typical lifestyle-and-beauty posts, he notes that you’ve made quite a number of updates about your personal life. He feels like he’s reading an online diary.

He catches phrases like ‘my husband’s turning into a workaholic’ and ‘I feel like I’ve been pushed to second place’ and ‘How does a marriage work if one half of the relationship isn’t there?’ and the picture starts to become a whole lot clearer.

The more that Bucky reads, the more of a douche he realises he’s been. He’s not just a shitty husband, he’s the  _worst fucking asshole_ in history, who also happens to be married to you.

“Fuck me,” Bucky whispers, after he’s read about five blog posts under the #marriedlife tag. He hands the phone back to Steve, feeling a little numb inside. He scrubs his hand over his stubbled jaw as he stares off into the distance, trying to make sense of it all.

“What’d you figure out?” Shuri asks.

“That I’m an idiot,” Bucky replies, “The biggest, most oblivious idiot in the whole entire universe — holy shit. I’ve been an absolute  _dick._ ”

Tony snorts. “Yes, well — I tend to have this kind of realisation about once a year, so I know exactly how this feels,” he says jovially, as he claps Bucky on the shoulder. “I was gonna ask you for an update, but I think I’ll leave you to simmer in your thoughts, instead — I want that prototype ready to go by tomorrow evening, alright?”

“Sure thing, Mr Stark,” Sam replies.

Bucky registers Tony turning on his heel and heading back to the lift bay, Pepper trailing along after him, furiously tapping away on her phone. Steve pulls up a stool and sits down beside Bucky, whilst Sam and Shuri linger around the table.

“So,” Shuri says, breaking the silence. “What now?”

Bucky sighs. “I dunno, honestly — I want to…I  _need_  to go find her, talk to her, sort some things out, but—if we’re gonna get this working prototype done in time—”

“We can handle that,” Sam says confidently. “We’re almost there, all we gotta do is finish the circuitry, then double-check the codes, which you’ve already modified.”

“If they need some help, I can ask Bruce to come down and take a look — he’d be more than happy to do that,” Steve adds.

“We got it covered, Barnes,” Shuri says gently. “Go. Your wife needs you.”

“Yeah, man, go sort your life out,” Sam agrees.

Bucky smiles gratefully at all of them. “Thanks guys, you’re the best,” he says sincerely.

“We know. You tell us that almost every day,” Shuri says smugly.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay — get on with your work, then. We’ve got a deadline to meet.”

—

You shoulder open the door of the cafe at 2PM on the dot. The butterflies in your stomach are going crazy, and your nerves are through the roof.

This morning, you’d nearly dropped your phone down the toilet when you saw that you’d received a message from  _the_  Pepper Potts. It had been completely unexpected, and you’d stared at your phone screen for a few long minutes, trying to convince yourself that this was actually happening.

She’d asked you to meet her for a late lunch this afternoon, as she had matters to discuss with you. You have no idea what those matters might be, let alone why she’s reached out to you, specifically, but you’d nonetheless agreed to her invite.

The cafe that you’re meeting her in is about half-full when you arrive, and there is a low hum of conversation in the background. It is tastefully decorated, with quaint wooden tables and wicker chairs neatly arranged across the tiled floor. There is a display case of beautiful — and very tempting — pastries next to the cashier. Everything is giving you a bit of a Parisian vibe.

You spot Pepper immediately, sitting at a table near the back, her strawberry-blonde hair standing out from the crowd. You weave your way through the tables to get to her. She stands up to greet you, extending a hand for you to shake. Pepper is dressed in a chic white, knee-length dress with black piping, and her hair is tied into a neat ponytail.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Ms Potts.”

She smiles benignly. “Please, call me Pepper. It’s nice to meet you too, Y/N. Come, have a seat, order whatever you’d like.”

You drop into the chair opposite hers. After a quick scan of the menu, you decide to go with a sandwich and some juice.

“I have to admit, I was quite surprised to get your message,” you tell her, once you’ve relayed your order to a waiter.

Pepper laughs. “Yes — it was quite unexpected, wasn’t it? Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“It’s not a problem.” you reply. You pause for a brief moment, chewing on your bottom lip as you pick your next words. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…what is this about?”

She smiles tightly as she sits back in her chair. “This morning…I was visiting our R&D teams with Tony, and I bumped into your husband, who mentioned something about your marriage being in a bit of a rocky place.”

You stiffen. She saw Bucky? You want to ask her a million questions — what did he say  _i_? Did he look okay? — but you bite your tongue to restrain yourself. Your heartbeat accelerates in anticipation of what she has to say.

“I don’t mean to intrude, or be too forward, but — I empathise with your struggles,” she says kindly, “I’ve been there, dealing with Tony. It’s…it’s been quite the journey to get our relationship to where it is right now. I was, I suppose, hoping to lend you an understanding ear, or perhaps even some advice, if you think that might be useful.”

At that moment, the waiter comes by with your drink. You take a sip of it, buying yourself some time as you come up with a response.

“Thank you for the offer,” you say, “I’ve talked about this with my friends, but it’s nice, I guess, to talk about it with someone who’s been through the same kinda thing.”

Pepper smiles patiently when you pause to think. You’re glad that she’s not pressuring you in any way, and just letting you continue to talk at your own pace.

You exhale harshly. “I guess…my husband…he’s turned into a bit of a workaholic and I’m just wondering…how can I cope with that?”

Pepper hums. “I didn’t cope very well, for a long time — it’s why we split up for a while, you know? It’s hard, feeling like you’re constantly competing for his affection, like you’re always secondary to his work.”

“Tony,” she stops, laughs dryly, “He’s got such a — a saviour’s complex, always working on this or that or the other, saving these people from  _that_ disease, or making _this_  invention to solve some problem in the world, and I just—I just need him to  _breathe_  for a minute, you get me?”

You laugh, perhaps a little hysterically. “Oh my god, I relate to this so hard,” you tell her.

She shoots you a knowing smile. “It went on like that for a while, but he’s not as bad, anymore — or maybe, I’ve just gotten used to it.”

You sigh, shifting your gaze away from her as you pick at the hem of your shirt. “I don’t think I can — get used to it, that is,” you murmur.

“I didn’t think I could, either, when we first started getting serious.”

Your eyes flick to her, curiosity written in your features. “What’s your secret? How did you learn to deal with it?”

Pepper smiles and shakes her head, like she’s indulging herself on an inside joke. “I think this is the point in movies where I’m supposed to say ‘communication’, but honestly? The chances of that man having a talk about his feelings are as low as me sprouting a third arm. I mean, it  _could_ happen, I suppose, but not without a lot of prior intervention.”

A laugh bubbles out of your throat. “Okay, so not communication—”

“No, no, communication is important!” Pepper says hastily. She pauses as the waiter comes over with your food.

“Please, don’t follow our example,” she continues, as you take a bite out of your sandwich. “If your husband wants to talk to you, then for the love of god, take the opportunity and get him to listen to you! I’m being quite specific there — get  _him_ to listen to you,” she stresses, levelling you with a keen-eyed stare.

“Men like James and Tony can get a little lost in their heads sometimes, thinking too far into the future, and it’s important to show them that there are other ways to live. Make sure that your husband listens to your points — don’t just go along with his idea, even if agreeing with him is the path of least resistance.”

You nod in agreement, filing that tidbit of advice away in the back of your head for later. You swallow your mouthful of food before asking your next question.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in there — you said communication isn’t your secret, so what is?”

Pepper takes a sip of her drink before answering you. “It’s…well, actually, it’s a combination of two things, and I’ll do my best to explain them both to you.”

“Firstly, compartmentalisation — this one’s pretty easy to understand, but quite difficult to actually practice. Essentially, you need to develop a clear split between your work life and your personal life. Think of it like having two modes.”

You hum in understanding. “So you’re saying that when you’re at work, you’re  _doing_  work, but when you’re at home, you’re…doing home things? Well, not doing work things, anyway.”

“Exactly. It’s hard for Tony to do that sometimes, but generally, he tries to make an effort.”

“Yeah, I can see how that’d work for us — one of my main problems is that my husband’s working long hours, and then he comes home and does  _more work_.”

Pepper laughs, though not unkindly. “It’s amazing that he still has the energy for that, isn’t it?”

“I guess you could say that,” you concede.

She smiles benignly. “Okay, so that’s the first point. The second point is…trust.”

“Trust?” you echo questioningly.

“Trusting in the fact that I am always his number one, even if it doesn’t seem that way in that particular moment. He always loves me, but he might not  _always_ be expressing that love in a way that I need and understand. It’s about having faith in his loyalties, I suppose.”

You frown, slowly chewing on your food before responding. “So…okay. Yeah. I get you, I think. I guess that’s a belief that I need to internalise, huh?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding vigorously. “You know, someone explained it to me like this — imagine you have a child. You always love that child, even when you’re frustrated or upset or scolding them. When you’re scolding them, you might not be  _showing_ your love for them in a way that they understand, but that…background emotion of love is still there. Do you see what I’m trying to say?”

“I think so,” you murmur, “But I’ll need to sit on that for a bit longer, I think.”

Pepper smiles in understanding. “Of course. These are difficult concepts to wrap your head around,” she says gently.

“Thanks for the advice, though, it’s…it’s given me a new perspective on things.”

“It’s no problem,” she replies, “And you must remember — those are just some things that have worked for us. You need to have a talk with your husband to work out how you’ll move forward from this.”

You sigh heavily as you polish off the last of your sandwich. “Yeah, you’re right. I mean, people can keep giving me their opinions and their advice, but at the end of the day, none of that matters if I don’t talk to him.”

“Well, best of luck when that talk finally happens.”

“Thank you — for the meal, for the advice. It’s meant a lot, Pepper, really.”

Pepper gives you an encouraging smile as she leans forward and covers your hand with hers. “It’s been my pleasure — keep my number, and give me a call if you need to talk to someone who can relate. I’ve found this rather therapeutic, actually.”

You laugh. “I’m glad to hear that.”

—

You leave your lunch with Pepper feeling pensive, but also clear-headed. You’ve taken her advice to heart and, after thinking long and hard about your situation, you know what to do to move forward. All that’s left is to actually take the next step.

In other words, you need to have a long, sit-down talk with your husband.

You decide to walk back to Wanda’s place, because it’s a a crisp day and her place isn’t too far from the cafe. You put your headphones in, tuck your hands into the pockets of your coat and pull your scarf up around your face to protect it from the brisk wind.

When you get to Wanda’s place, you walk up the steps to her front door, only to discover a familiar figure sitting with their back against the wall. He looks up and, realising that it’s you, scrambles to his feet.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says.

        


	5. you'll be okay

Bucky is nervous.

Scratch that, he’s  _beyond_  nervous.

Even his  _nerves_  are nervous, goddammit.

(Shuri would say that he’s highkey terrified.)

Bucky legitimately thinks that he’s about to shit his pants, and isn’t that just a pleasant thought?

The last time his palms were this sweaty, he’d been pacing the floor of his mouldy dorm room, anxiously waiting to propose to you. The last time his heart was pounding this hard, he’d been seconds away from giving his first presentation to the SI board of directors. The last time his throat had been this dry, he’d been standing under a canopy of flowers, preparing himself to recite his vows to you.

Bucky can hardly hear anything beyond the roar of his pulse in his ears, and that bagel he’d had for breakfast is slowly working its way up his throat.

So yeah. He’s nervous as  _fuck_.

You haven’t said anything since you stumbled across him, so Bucky clears his throat and lets the words pour out of his mouth.

“Look, honey, I’m sorry. I’ve — well, heh. I’ve been a pretty fucking  _shit_ husband lately, and I’m so,  _so_ sorry,” he says sincerely, “I can’t say that enough. If you’d like to…I mean…do you wanna talk?”

You blink owlishly. “ _Now_?” you ask.

“Uh…yeah?” he says slowly. “Or…is now not a good time?”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. “Well, I don’t know, is it a good time for you, James? You’re always going on about a certain project you’re working on, and how you’re so  _busy_  with it.”

Bucky grimaces. Yeah, he probably deserved that. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I, um — I asked Shuri and Sam to man the fort for a bit. We’ve got time.”

You purse your lips. “How did you know where to find me?”

Bucky blushes, ducking his head shyly. “Um, Steve showed me one of your blogposts—”

“He  _what_?” you squawk. “He reads my—my blog?”

“Well, he kinda stumbled across it when—actually nevermind,” Bucky says, breaking off with an awkward cough. “I uh…yeah, so he showed me, and I read some of them, and you mentioned in one that you were staying in your friend W’s house and….well. You’ve only got one friend whose name starts with a ‘W’, so…yeah.”

You huff dryly. Bucky stuffs his hands into his pockets and stares down at his shoes whilst he anxiously waits for your response.

“Alright,” you sigh, “Yeah, okay. Come inside.”

—

Though you knew that you’d need to talk to Bucky eventually, you’d been hoping to have at least another day to gather your thoughts. Sure, you have a rough idea of what you  _want_ to say, but you were hoping to spend the rest of the afternoon gathering your thoughts and hashing out a rough script.

Then again, Pepper  _did_ say that if Bucky wanted to sit down and talk to you, you’d be stupid not to seize the opportunity that you’d been presented with.

(Okay, perhaps those weren’t her  _exact_  words, but she’d said something to the same extent.)

Wanda’s house is empty, as she and Vis have gone out for the afternoon. You’d spent most of the morning with her and Natasha, lounging on the couch and binging your favourite TV show on Netflix. The three of you had gone your separate ways in the afternoon, after you’d told the girls about your unexpected message from Pepper.

As you bring your husband to the guest bedroom, you can’t help but feel a little bit nervous. Your skin is tingling with anticipation and your heart is thumping against your ribs. On the one hand, you’re glad that Bucky has — seemingly — come to his senses and reached out to you. On the other hand, you’ve got no idea how the next hour or so will pan out.

Will you two still be a married couple by the end of the afternoon?

Only time will tell.

You shoulder open the bedroom door and gracefully plop yourself at the foot of the bed, crossing your legs at the knee.

“Take a seat,” you tell Bucky, gesturing towards the armchair in the corner of the room.

You watch as he shrugs off his black suit jacket, carefully draping it over the armrest before he takes a seat. Now that you’re able to look at him properly, you realise just how much last night seems to have taken its toll on Bucky.

There are dark purple bags under his eyes, and the coating of stubble on his jaw indicates that he hadn’t bothered to shave this morning, which is completely unlike him. Besides that, he hasn’t taken the effort to style his hair like he usually does, and his white button-down and black slacks look crumpled, and a little worse-for-wear.”

“You look like shit,” you tell him.

Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise, before he bursts out into hysterical laughter, burying his face in his hands as his shoulders quake uncontrollably.

You’re taken aback, but choose to bite your tongue and wait out his laughing fit.

“Oh, jeez,” Bucky sighs, as he sits back and scrubs his eyes wearily. “Would you believe that you’re the third person to say to me, today?”

You shrug, biting your lip to keep your expression neutral. “It’s the truth,” you say airily.

“Yeah, well. I guess,” he sighs, before clearing his throat and sitting up straighter. “So, uh…any idea how you wanna do this? Is it okay if I say something first?”

You nod and motion for him to go ahead.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, as he clasps his hands in his lap; a sure sign of his nerves. “Okay, well, um, first and foremost — I want you to know that I love you. And that I never,  _ever_ stopped loving you, and I’m sorry if I ever made you think that way.”

He pauses, and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I guess I haven’t been doing a good enough job at being your husband, so I promise you, I’m gonna try harder, do better.”

You school your features into a neutral expression, not wanting to give away any of your thoughts. Whilst it’s nice to know that Bucky has recognised — at least some — of his faults, you don’t want to hear  _promises_  from him. You want to know  _how_  he’s actually going to fulfil the promises that he’s making.

“I think that we haven’t been communicating with each other a lot, recently,” you say slowly. “There’re things on my mind that I haven’t shared with you, and…I don’t think we’re on the same page anymore.”

“I agree.”

“So…maybe the best thing to do is to clear the air, lay out all our cards and just…take it from there, yeah?”

Bucky nods in agreement. “Great plan. So, um — yeah, like I said before, I’ve read your blogposts, and I think that I know what’s been troubling you—”

“And right  _there’s_  the problem,” you interrupt, holding up a hand to silence him. Bucky’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click.

“See, you  _think_  you know what’s bothering me, but you don’t know, not really. You can’t make assumptions like that, Buck, you gotta talk to me. And — okay, yeah, I know I’ve got my issues too, but the point is, you can’t assume that you everything — that’s kinda the crux of the issue, really.”

Bucky sits back and considers you for a moment. “Okay, I — you’re right. Yeah. Yeah, okay, I see what you’re saying,” he mumbles, as he rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “Please — talk. Enlighten me, honey.”

You sigh, idly picking at the patterned bed sheet before continuing. “Y’know, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I think that my problems can be summarised into a few points.”

“Firstly, and most importantly — I miss you,” you say simply. “I miss spending time with you. You’re never home anymore, and I…I  _need_ to see you, to have quality time with you. I wanna go on walks and visit museums and do all the stuff that we used to do. I feel like I’m not getting any of your attention anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, fingers twitching like he’s itching to reach out and hold your hand.

You smile at him briefly before barreling on. “Don’t get me wrong — I get it, you’re stressing over this project, and I know that you’re doing all this because you want us to be in a financially secure position, but honey?  _I don’t care_.”

That seems to shock him. Bucky’s eyes widen minutely, and his mouth twists in confusion.

“I’m serious,” you tell him. “Honey, we could be living in a crusty apartment in the shadiest part of town and I wouldn’t fucking care, as long as I had you — yeah, okay, that’s cheesy as hell, but it’s the truth.”

You pause, biting your bottom lip shyly. “When I met you, we were both broke-ass college kids. D’you remember how we had to look under the car seats to get enough money to pay for gas that one time?”

Bucky huffs out a wry laugh. “Yeah, I remember,” he murmurs.

“We were both in a shit-ton of student debt, we barely had enough money to pay the rent, we were living off instant noodles — it wasn’t the easiest of times. But, the thing is, I loved you then, I love you now, and I’ll love you through thick and thin, Bucky I  _swear_. I just — I don’t wanna make you choose between your work and your wife, but…we need to find a way for you to have both.”

“Okay, honey, I—”

“Hold up, hold up,” you say, “I got one more thing and then you can talk.”

“Shoot.”

You steel yourself internally before continuing. “Kids.”

Bucky’s brows pull together in confusion. “What about ‘em?”

You swallow nervously. “Well, I want to have them with you, someday, but I want to raise them w _ith you_.”

“Is this about what you wrote in that blogpost?”

You nod, relief flooding through your system when you realise that he knows what you’re talking about. “Yeah. Like, I don’t want us to be _that_ couple, where mom’s doing all the child-raising, and dad’s just… _there_ , as this abstract father figure in their lives. I want our kids to  _have_ a dad, to hang out with their dad, to  _know_ their dad, you get me?”

—

Bucky nods slowly as he turns your words over in his head.

What you’ve described is something he can empathise with. Growing up, sure, he’d maintained a good relationship with his father, but it had always been clear to him that his mom was in charge of looking after Bucky and his sisters. His dad hadn’t been a bad dad, per se, but he hadn’t been there for any of the big, personal moments in Buck’s life, like his first girlfriend and stuff like that.

Bucky wants to do better.

“I hear you, sweetheart, and you’re right — I _have_  been putting my work before you, more than I should be.”

He sighs, slumping further into the chair. Bucky takes the opportunity to look at you,  _properly_  look at you, the way he hasn’t done in who-knows how long.

 _God_ , how are you so always pretty? You’re dressed in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with a grey hoodie on top, yet you still manage to look as beautiful as the day he first met you.

Bucky clears his throat. “I guess…I dunno.  I feel so responsible for my work, and my team and — but I ‘spose I just gotta learn to say no and push some things off my plate, huh?”

Your lips quirk into a half-smile. “There’s this thing, it’s called ‘delegating jobs’ — it’s really useful. You should try it out some time,” you say, winking mischievously.

Bucky throws his head back and laughs. “I will, sweetie, I will,” he says agreeably. “But yeah, I guess I gotta stop worrying so much about the future and just…live more in the now.”

You hum thoughtfully. “I think it’d be a good idea for you and me both to get into the habit of separating work and personal life. I mean, it’s a bit harder for me, ‘cause I actually  _work_  from home, and all, but…basically, when you’re working you’re working, and when you’re at home, you switch off.”

Bucky’s brows furrow together as he processes your words. “So like…are you saying that I should have two ‘modes’?” he asks, air-quotes and all. “Work-Bucky and home-Bucky?”

“Yep,” you say, easily rolling with the engineering analogy he’s thrown at you. “So, when you’re at work, you engage work-Bucky, you’re getting shit done, you’re productive and efficient and whatever. But, when you’re at home, you switch off from all that. You unplug, you chill out, you spend time with your family…you take a break.”

“I like that idea, I really do,” Bucky says slowly, “Actually, Sam’s been saying that I should have a better work-life balance—”

“You should really listen to what Sam says.”

He snorts. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that,” he says, mock-threateningly. “But seriously, I think I need to be better at sticking to regular office hours and…yeah. When I’m with you, I’m not working, and when I’m at work, I’m…well, working.”

You nod fervently. “Yes! I mean, we can obviously talk about our work when we’re talking about our days, just — there’s a difference between  _talking_  about work and actually  _doing_ work, y’know? And obviously, there’ll be times when you or I need to pull some overtime to meet a deadline or something, and that’s cool too, just—”

“Avoid it wherever possible?”

You smile brightly. “Exactly.”

—

You feel as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. This talk has been everything you’d hoped for and more.

Why on  _earth_  didn’t you do this sooner?

You watch as Bucky gets up from his chair and comes over to sit beside you on the bed. He knocks his shoulder against yours gently. “Are we okay?” he asks hesitantly.

You lean into his side and rest your head on his shoulder, humming quietly. “We’re gonna be okay.”

Bucky tentatively takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. You give him an affectionate, reassuring squeeze.

“I’m gonna have a good talk with my team,” he promises, “We’re gonna evaluate the situation, maybe consider taking on more people — we’re gonna sort this shit out. I’m gonna try my damn hardest to be a better husband, honey, ‘cause you deserve one.”

You turn to look at him, into those steely-grey eyes that have become your safe place in the years that you’ve known him.

“I love you,” you breathe, the corners of your lips twitching into a smile.

An exultant grin spreads over his lips. “I love you too,” he murmurs, as he bends down to press his lips to yours.

It’s a languid and luxurious kiss, both of you content to just feel your lips brushing together in the lightest of touches; neither of you are in a hurry to take things further.

You’ve missed this intimacy and closeness, being able to breathe in the familiar scent of Bucky’s cologne and underneath that, his sweat and musk. He pulls you closer, one hand wrapped around your waist, the fingers of his other hand curling around your neck. The position is a little awkward, and at one point, you accidentally elbow him in the ribs, but your heart is soaring and nothing could make this moment more incredible.

When you break away, you rest your forehead against the crook of his neck and sigh contentedly, happy that the worries that have been plaguing you for the last few weeks have finally been resolved.

“D’you need to go back to work?” you ask.

You feel, rather than see him shaking his head. “I took the rest of the day off,” Bucky tells you. “C’mon. Let’s finally go on that date that I’ve been promising you, eh?”


	6. epilogue

It’s been a good day.

You’ve put up a new blogpost, you’ve brainstormed some designs for your spring sticker collection, and to top it all off, you’ve just had a productive meeting with Peter, your web-designer extraordinaire. He’s come up with some amazing ideas to revamp the Sunshine’s Creations site, and you’re excited to implement all the changes that he’s suggested.

Thus, it’s no wonder that you have a huge smile on your face as you toe off your shoes and hang up your coat. The apartment is filled with the warm, comforting smell of a roast dinner, and there’s some mellow, chilled-out music playing over the speakers.

You head into the kitchen to find Bucky cheerfully humming to the music as he pulls a roasting dish out of the oven. He’s wearing a white undershirt and a pair of grey sweatpants that are riding dangerously low on his hips. There’s a strip of exposed skin between his undershirt and pants, and it’s an incredibly distracting sight.  

“Hey honey!” Bucky calls over his shoulder, “Be with you in a sec.”

You lean against counter and watch as he sets sets the dish onto a heat-proof mat to cool down. Bucky pulls off his oven mitts, tosses them onto the countertop, then saunters over to you.

“Hey,” he says softly, lips quirking into a smile as he bends down and gives you a welcome-home peck on the lips.

“Hey yourself,” you murmur, snaking your arms around his waist to tug him closer, pulling him in for a proper kiss. He laughs, but doesn’t resist as you card your fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck and press your lips together.

“Smells great,” you tell him, when you finally break apart. “Need any help?”

Bucky shakes his head no. “Nah, I’m almost done — just gotta finish off the gravy. Why don’t you go and get changed?”

“‘Kay — I’ll be back in a bit.”

Eager to get back to Bucky as soon as possible, you dash into the bedroom to change out of your day clothes into something comfier; a pair of black leggings and one of  Bucky’s old t-shirts. You also wipe off your makeup and clip your hair out of your face.

Once you’ve finished getting un-ready, you take your phone out of your purse, turn if off, then put it and your laptop away in your home office.

There’ll be no devices to distract you, tonight.

This is a new thing that you and Bucky have been trying to do every week; putting away all your devices and disconnecting completely from the outside world for a few hours. You’ve missed the little pleasures that come with simply enjoying each other’s company, so this is a great way to strengthen your bond as a couple. Blackout Nights, as Bucky’s taken to calling them, are just one of the many things that both of you are doing to patch up your relationship.

When you shuffle back into the kitchen, you find that Bucky has plated up two enormous servings of food, and drenched everything in a glossy, dark-brown gravy. Your stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“It looks amazing,” you tell him, as you come up to him from behind and wrap your arms around his waist. You drop a kiss between his shoulder blades, then turn to press your cheek to his back. Bucky laughs softly, one hand coming to rest on top of your folded ones.

“Thanks, doll — you hungry?” he asks.

“Fuckin’ starving.”

He barks out a laugh. “Okay, then — grab a plate and head to the couch. I’ve already put your drink on the coffee table.”

You hum appreciatively, giving Bucky one more squeeze before letting him go. “You’re the best.”

After grabbing some cutlery, your carry your plate over to the living room and curl up in your favourite spot on the couch. Bucky joins you soon after, squeezing himself into the gap between your body and the arm rest; he’s close enough that your thighs are pressed firmly together.

“Not a bad way to spend a Friday evening, huh?” he asks.

“Not at all,” you agree, as you pierce a carrot with your fork.

What’s not to love? You’re about to have a quiet evening at home, with Bucky’s complete and undivided attention on you — it’s everything you’d wanted during those turbulent times in your relationship and more.

“Hey,” Bucky says suddenly, knocking elbows with you.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to say I love you.”

“Sap,” you mutter, even as you lean over to kiss him silly.

—

The dirty plates have been dumped into a sink and a fluffy blanket has been draped over your entangled legs. Your head is pillowed on Bucky’s chest and your ass is precariously close to his groin — perhaps in a few minutes time, that situation could lead to something steamier.

For now, Bucky takes comfort in your weight on top of him, and breathes in the sweet fragrance of your shampoo. His fingers are intertwined with yours, resting on your belly; life could not be more perfect.

“We should go on a holiday,” you murmur drowsily, pulling Bucky out of his thoughts. “We haven’t gone somewhere nice for a while.”

Bucky hums in agreement. “Funny you should say that now — I’ve just put in a request to take ten days of leave at the end of November.”

“Really?” you ask, intrigued.

“Yeah, just waiting for HR to process it. Let’s go to Puerto Rico — or anywhere with a beach, really. Somewhere warm, with shitty cell reception.”

You bark out a laugh as you turn around to face him, planting one hand in the centre of his chest to steady yourself. You’ve got a glimmer of excitement in your eyes and a wide grin on your face.

“Shitty cell reception so that no one can call you about work?” you guess.

Bucky grins as he leans forward to gently bump his nose against yours. “Exactly.”

Your face crinkles into a smile, one that reaches all the way to your eyes. “M’kay. I’d like that.”

He bites his lip as he smoothes your hair away from your face, buying some time before he tells you the news that he’s been dying to say ever since you stepped through the front door.

“What is it?” you ask, brows furrowing in concern, “You look like you’re about to confess a murder, or something.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head, marvelling at how you can read him so easily.

“I…had a chat with Tony, today,” he say slowly, “About that promotion I’ve been going on about.”

Your eyebrows twitch with interest, but besides that, you give no other reaction.

“Basically, he gave me his final offer — and the pay would’ve been great, don’t get me wrong, but I turned it down.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. Before you can open your mouth to speak, Bucky rushes to continue.

“I turned down the extra money, but I bargained for something else — and I think you’ll like this.”

“What did you ask for?” you ask, your eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Extra leave — paid leave,” Bucky replies. “We had a bit of back and forth, but eventually, Stark agreed to 15 days of paid leave, in addition to what I already have.”

“You’re serious?” you ask excitedly.

Bucky nods, as a wide grin bursts across his face. “Completely serious, honey. Same pay, same workload—”

“Same team! God, you’ll still have to put up with Sam—”

“Eh, he’s not actually that bad,” Bucky says. “Same everything, except I’m now contractually obligated to take more days off to spend with you.”

Your smile broadens as you sling your arms around his neck, bringing your faces just a hair’s breadth apart. “Best. News. Ever,” you declare, before planting a firm kiss to his lips.

A small laugh rumbles out of Bucky’s chest as he tightens his arms around you, holding you close.

He let you go once before, and it was the biggest heartbreak he’d ever been forced to experience.

He’s not planning on letting you go again anytime soon. You’re his priority now.

**Author's Note:**

> Reblog the series masterlist on [tumblr!](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/177901488160/priorities-masterlist/)


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